Reluctant Regret
by Artichokie
Summary: Just after the rebirth of Lord Voldemort, Bellatrix reflects on how far she has truly fallen from her once comfortable perch.


Till You Return

**Reluctant Regret**

_By Artichokie_

"I will prevail!" she shouted into the bustling wind, her words carried swiftly away. Her voice sounded hoarse even to her own ears, the suppression of her emotions taking its toll. Wisps of long, black hair slapped against her face and then promptly slid back to flail behind her in the harsh squall. Her cheeks shone brilliant pink against her pale skin, a great contrast to the black surrounding her face. Her eyes were dark, narrowed into slits as she stared into the setting sun.

Her velvet black cloak hugged the front of her body like a second skin, the excess fabric pushed behind her. The slapping of the thick fabric created a rhythm to the scene, one that increased her already racing pulse with anticipation and determination. Her arms hung limply at her sides, swinging back and forth from the force of the gusts. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, rapid from her journey to the perch she now stood on.

Her feet were inches from a ledge that hung precariously out over the angry waves of the ocean water. Jagged rocks peaked out from the foaming waters, their surfaces glistening in the fading light. She watched as pebbles gave way beneath her feet and plummeted into the waves. She knew if she was not careful, she'd be next to go over the ledge. _And what an ordinary way to perish that would be!_ she thought cynically.

It'd had been four days since His official return. Four long, agony-filled days that Bellatrix kept reliving in her head. How could she not have seen it coming? How could she have been gullible to believe He had finally ceased to exist? She should've known, should've felt something in the cavity that used to encase her heart. Her gut should have told her.

Bellatrix dropped her head back and faced the sky, her dry eyes closing. She opened her mouth and breathed in the salty air, letting it was down her throat. She had felt it coming, the first meeting. Her mind instantly went back to the graveyard, the rebirth of Him repeating in her head. It had been a frightening moment, she silently admitted to herself. It scared her to think that she hadn't done enough to keep His memory alive, that she had been a part of the propaganda that tried to instill confidence in the world. She felt she had failed Him.

She tried reasoning herself that she had done all she could, especially for being stuck in Azkaban for as long as she had. Many of her fellow Death Eaters—she scoffed at using the title on them—had turned their backs. They'd given up! She'd thought of it, those traitorous thoughts that had plagued her during the darkest of nights; she thought about how easy it would be to resign the battle. She never gave into the thoughts, though; she'd always felt the war wasn't over yet. She never knew for sure if He'd return or not, however. That's where her sense of failure came from.

It had been Pettigrew who had assisted His return. Poor, pathetic, sniveling Peter Pettigrew. He'd always looked more like his animagus form than an actual human being. He acted like one, too, as far as she was concerned. He'd snuck in and performed his magic as best as he could—and that wasn't necessarily saying much—and came out on top. Pettigrew was the savior! He was the one the Dark Lord blessed. His sacrifices were recognized, but not hers. Oh, no, because sitting in a prison cell for more years than she could count was paltry compared to Pettigrew's feat!

She pushed air out through her nose in a silent angry protest. Her fists clinched at her sides as her body tensed. Her chin came down, becoming parallel to the ground beneath her feet. Her eyes opened into barely-there slits, her jaw clinching tight. She didn't understand it.

She wasn't jealous; she was bitter. She recognized the difference. To be jealous would mean she recognized someone as her better—and no one was better than her! She admired few, but she remained jealous-free. That was one thing that Azkaban had failed to take away from her, even though it tried its best to take everything else. She was still a confident woman after all these years.

Despite the slight setback, she would prevail. She would prove to Pettigrew and anyone else who cared to be a witness that she was still the best and most loyal Death Eater to exist. She would regain her most coveted spot of His right-hand man, for she once thought she'd held that position. She was once the best on His team, and she still was. They'd all see!

A strong hand grabbed her stiff wrist, its fingers pushing punishingly into her soft skin. She was swung around, her cloak swirling with her and catching against her legs. A gust of wind pushed a wave of black hair in front of her face, obscuring her captor's view. The hood of her cloak was blown off of her upper back. The hem came to rest haphazardly on top of her head. With her free hand, Bellatrix hastily removed the stray hair, pushing it behind her ears as best as she could. The wind and hood made things difficult.

The fingers at her wrist tightened. She looked up to find the gray eyes of her husband angrily narrowed into slits that matched her own, his left eye twitching. She stared at that eye, as she had done many times in the past. She always knew when he was in a rage for that one eye would twitch uncontrollably. It had brought her much humor in the past, but now it only annoyed her.

His pale skin matched hers. His cheeks were pink from the wind, and his short brown hair was tousled about by the brisk wind. He wore a cloak similar to her own, thick velvet that concealed his entire body in extra fabric. It flailed in the wind, mixing with her own and matching the rhythm perfectly.

"Bellatrix," he hissed from between gritted teeth. She'd almost missed it, the wind-blown fabric louder than his voice. His hand tightened even more, his dull fingernails digging into her skin and pushing her veins into her muscle. She finally began to feel the pain his grasp caused and resisted the urge to cringe. Her eyes swung down to his hand and then back up to his eyes. He had no right to treat her like this.

"Are you crazy?" he growled. This time his voice was clear above the nature surrounding them, and Bellatrix inwardly raved against them. No, she wasn't crazy! She was just sick and tired of being cooped inside that little rundown cottage she was forced to call a refuge! She'd spent the last decade, at least, holed up in a prison cell. She craved her freedom!

He jerked her around when it became apparent she wasn't taking in his words. She was once more facing the sun, now nearly set. Her hood was sent flying off of her head, her hair once more slapping against her face. She ignored the strands this time, refusing to glance away from this miserably brute she, unfortunately, called Husband.

He jerked her arm, causing her to take a step forward and close the gap between them. "They no doubt have the entire Wizarding army out looking for you! And you feel the urge to wander out into the open, like a sitting duck on a lake surrounded by hungry crocodiles!" He let a vicious curse escape his lips. "Has Azkaban muddled your brain?"

She jerked back at that comment, the urge to allow her anger to flow out of control almost painful. She subdued it, however, and curled the fingers of her free hand into the folds of her cloak. She jerked her captured hand against his grasp, catching him off-guard. He let go of her, his eyes warily watching her. Instinctively, she shoved against him.

His left foot caught the rest of him, his heel landing on open air. His arms flailed for a moment, but he regained his balance. She had almost relished in the possibility of watching him plummet to his death. It'd be one less person she'd have to worry about. She sighed; she should've shoved harder.

Once it was apparent he wasn't going to fall, his eyes regained their angry slits. His eye began twitching again. She figured he has reason enough to be angry with her—now—but she still rebelled against his manhandling of her.

"Don't touch me," she hissed darkly at him, her voice sounding foreign to herself. Her head shook slowly, emphasizing her point. "Don't _ever_ touch me." Before she gave into the urge to shove him once more and take pleasure in his death, she swiftly turned around and hastily paced away from him.

She didn't need him. He was a nuisance. Their life as a happily married couple was over. It had been over the day she'd been locked in Azkaban. Happily? Pah, they'd never been happy. It was one façade she was willing to sacrifice in order to regain her status.

She would prevail.


End file.
